


Never Removed From Box

by sarcasticsra



Series: Toy Collection [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, can someone please strangle the Holmes brothers, it is infuriating to write them talking about eight things at once, or at least smack them upside the head, while they try very hard to avoid actually SAYING anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:59:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticsra/pseuds/sarcasticsra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Sherlock talk. By some miracle, they somehow manage to have a conversation, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Removed From Box

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaand now for some mood whiplash. Apparently. I just. These two. THESE TWO. I want to shake them. And hug them. But also shake them again. It's a terrible dilemma. Thanks for looking it over, Geena!

Mycroft didn’t bother knocking before letting himself into 221b. He was sure Sherlock heard him, even over the rather loud violin-playing he was currently engaged in. It cut off abruptly, precisely in time with the first tap of his umbrella upon the floor.

“A new piece,” he said. “Rather disorganized, isn’t it?”

“It’s not finished,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Have you come to pilfer more of my belongings?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You do realize people are not possessions, Sherlock.”

“And you do?” Sherlock said. “What happened to the man living in a world of goldfish?”

“Absolutely nothing. They continue to swim on merrily around me, content in their own frivolous existences.”

“I thought as much,” Sherlock said, eyes flashing. “And when Lestrade gets attached—or should I say _further_ attached—and you quietly dismiss him after—how long is it, your usual? A month, I believe, on the outside? What do you suppose will happen then?”

“You really are concerned for him,” Mycroft said, and it was more of a surprise than it should have been—he hadn’t exactly doubted John and Gregory’s conclusion the other day, but he didn’t think it would ever be this obvious.

Sherlock scowled. “The inevitable fallout will make our working relationship an extremely difficult one.”

“No, brother, I think your hand has been shown—by your previous actions in addition to these.” He glanced around the room. “John is with Mary tonight?”

“Refrain from phrasing facts you already know as questions. It’s tedious.”

Mycroft studied him. “They invited you, I see. You are not attending because?”

“I have more important things to attend to.”

“Yes. Clearly.”

“Would you kindly get to the point of this rather pointless visit, Mycroft?”

“You don’t have to worry about Gregory, Sherlock.”

“Who?”

“I am not falling for that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re saying he’s already come to his senses and realized his appalling error in judgment?”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “They’re not merely being polite when they invite you to dinner, you know.”

Sherlock snapped his head up, eyes narrowing. “You have no possible means of deducing that.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake. Not everything requires deduction. I know the parties involved and I have a somewhat objective view. You _are_ aware you are part of their relationship permanently, I hope?” Sherlock’s eyes shifted; he said nothing aloud, though of course after that it was hardly necessary. “Ah. This brings us back to our original problem. You don’t have the slightest idea how to share your toys.” He could have hidden the disdain in his tone, had he wanted to do so. He didn’t.

It took less than a second. Sherlock’s eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, but then, not much was actually imperceptible to Mycroft. “You—you have _feelings_ for Lestrade. _Ordinary_ feelings.” He sounded distinctly horrified by the possibility.

They stared silently at each other for several impossibly-long seconds.

Sherlock, of course, was the one to speak first. He never did much care for silence, Mycroft knew. “When he _does_ come to his senses…”

“Yes, Sherlock, thank you,” Mycroft said, suddenly tired. “I _am_ aware of that, not being an idiot.”

“But of course he can’t _hurt_ you,” he insisted, and Mycroft thought he might be genuinely confused. It quickly transitioned into a strange form of indignant horror. “You can’t simply plan to _let_ him.”

“I believe we have already had this conversation,” Mycroft said. “Our roles were reversed, I will grant you, but I doubt sincerely the outcome will change. Shall we refrain from repeating it?”

“Caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock said, thoughtful, after a moment.

“It isn’t.”

“No, of course it isn’t,” he said. “I’ve simply never seen you accept a disadvantage. It’s disconcerting—I demand you stop it immediately.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. One day, perhaps, Sherlock would truly understand how absurd that accusation really was. “I shall endeavour to correct the behaviour.” 

“You won’t,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You’re just going to let this happen, and then when he leaves you for someone more _normal_ , you’re going to—you’re going to—”

“Be his best man?” Mycroft asked, a trace of acid in the words. 

“Mary doesn’t exactly qualify as normal,” Sherlock snapped.

“No, nor has John actually left you—yet here you are, by yourself, pretending he has.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed. “You’re not pleased? You are slipping, aren’t you, Mycroft?” he asked, mocking. “Does Lestrade know what a fool he’s made you?”

“Have you looked in a mirror lately, brother dear?”

“Stop gloating.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re always gloating.”

“Close, but imprecise. I’m always right.” He paused. “With, perhaps, one exception.”

Sherlock actually looked alarmed for a brief moment. “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

“Your concern is truly heartwarming.”

“I simply have no desire to spend tedious hours restoring your mind from its _clearly_ addled state.”

“You’d only make it worse, of course.”

“I was unaware that was a possibility. Have you discovered new depths of depravity?”

“I suppose I could follow your example?”

Sherlock sniffed, drawing himself up haughtily. “I have a composition to finish.”

“You have a dinner to get to,” Mycroft, pulling out his pocket watch. “I estimate you have half an hour before you’re appallingly, unforgivably late.”

“I’m not going.”

Mycroft smiled. “You were never very good at lying to me, or don’t you recall?”

“Get out.”

“Have a nice time, Sherlock.”

He left, pausing on the landing for a moment as Sherlock started playing again, picking up precisely where he had left off earlier. Mycroft listened to the disorganized themes as they slowly overlapped and eventually fitted together quite beautifully, unlikely but still somehow organic.

He shook his head, moving quickly down the stairs, and the music crescendoed magnificently as he stepped out onto Baker Street. It was spectacular, of course, worthy of a standing ovation. 

Mycroft let his umbrella tap out his applause on the pavement as he walked, unable to be appalled by the piece’s sheer romanticism.

They were both fools, naturally. Perhaps there was some comfort in knowing it.

His car pulled up beside him and he slipped inside, knowing without needing to glance back that Sherlock was leaving his flat.

Then again, he thought—perhaps not.


End file.
